


Years, Continents. Epic.

by the_real_cactus_betty



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Australia, Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, Lovecember 2020, Veronica Mars Season/Series 04 Fix-It, little bit smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27932719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_real_cactus_betty/pseuds/the_real_cactus_betty
Summary: Christmas.Existing on salt air, sapphire skies and each other.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 27
Kudos: 79
Collections: Lovecember Holiday Edition





	Years, Continents. Epic.

**Author's Note:**

> Our lockdown in Australia prevented us from traveling across state borders, so naturally, I would sit and yearn to go to one of my favorite childhood destinations. In the absence of being able to visit, I decided to send Veronica and Logan there.
> 
> As always, thankyou to Aurora2020 for her beta work on this one.

Maybe uttering those words had become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Nineteen, drunk and hypnotized by her hair falling in tumbled waves to one side, exquisite in ways that sobered him by the minute. She commented on a song, and then the words fell from his mouth. 

Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed.

They’d endured most of it now.

Their lives inextricably changed six years previous, they had vowed to embrace the opportunities. Life was fleeting. A cliche they knew all too well.

So each Christmas, Veronica takes three weeks vacation. They stuff their suitcases to bursting and board a plane to the farthest reaches. First it was Scotland, then Egypt, then two years break to avoid the challenges of travelling with young children. Last year they sipped mulled wine in Germany and toured the Christmas Markets with strollers. This year they are sweltering in Australia. 

A small town called Batemans Bay, nestled on miles of headlands and inlets abutting the Tasman sea. Their Airbnb snuggled between summer-crisped eucalypts, wattles and banksia, a secluded paradise. Follow an overgrown, trampled dirt track from the house to a rocky cove, flanked on each side by gray shale rocks like staircases peppered with sun warmed pools. Crabs bask in the sun’s rays before hustling sideways as bubbling waves stretch their fingers towards them. The indigo waters of the rolling tide encroaching, erasing the footprints from the children in white sands, but not their laughter.

Two girls. 

In bathing suits and hats, one pink, one yellow, their blonde hair darkened, pressed wet against their skin.

Their own slice of the world, satisfied to barely stray and spend slow, idle days together. Existing on salt air, sapphire skies and each other.

There is nothing here to signify that it’s Christmas Eve. The burning sun overhead, not a pine in sight. There will be no turkey, no stuffing. Logan bought a whole snapper that he intends to cook on the grill. Veronica will make salads. There will be presents, small ones, ones that can fit in their suitcase on their return. They are just things. There is a certain warmth you feel when giving them, and receiving them in turn, but gifts can be replaced. People cannot. Time cannot. Childhood most definitely cannot. Logan and Veronica know this better than most.

Miss Four and Miss Three construct a sandcastle with their mother. There are no buckets or shovels, so they craft elaborate structures with their hands. Hands that are still chubby, fading dimples where there should be knuckles, speckled with sand, carefully sculpting. Miss Three presents her collection of foraged shells. Conches, pipis, translucent cockles and one side of an oyster shell repurposed as a tiny spade. She painstakingly places them atop each molded turret.

Logan lies on the sand, observing the construction. Despite sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he squints in the light. Veronica stands, assessing the castle, hands on hips, hair spilling down her back in loose thick waves, kissed earlier by the salt of the sea. Fine grains stick all the way up the back of her thighs, whiter than her now tanned skin. 

Time ceases to have meaning when they are away, hours are punctuated by snacks, giggles, afternoon naps and the diligent reapplication of sunscreen. Logan’s watch sits unused on the side table in the house. The sun has dipped against the tips of the gum leaves to the west, making its slow departure, bidding adieu to another endless blue sky.

The oyster shell aids in digging a moat, directly fed by seawater. Veronica makes the last few shovels and completes the canal. Water rushes in with the waves, filling its trenches. The children cheer, then place their feet into it, singing in delight before Miss Four stumbles and falls, rendering the largest castle flat. 

Tears ensue, then comfort in the warm arms of a mother.

Veronica looks to the sky, then to Logan. They exchange a silent conversation. Her eyes dip low, eyebrows raised. He replies with a gentle nod.

“It’s getting late, time for showers and bed,” she says, which is met with complaints and another barrage of tears.

Logan slowly lifts himself from his comfortable position and brushes the sand from his backside. He approaches Miss Four with an outstretched palm, in which she deposits her own, and his fingers encase her tiny ones. Tears quickly abate, and she swipes at them with a free, sand speckled hand. They amble back up the path, pushing through the brush that tickles their skin.

As they reach the rear gate a rock wallaby nibbles the green tips of grass to their right. They slow their tracks, Logan turns to Miss Three and presses a finger to his lips, her body vibrates with excitement. This strange animal, shrouded in grey fur, has a joey in its pouch. A head no larger than an egg peeks out. She can’t keep it in for long, and an elated squeal leaves her lips and the mother darts into the scrub. 

* * *

The children showered and pajamaed, Logan reads the first story, ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas, for what feels like the millionth time. They have only brought with them ten most treasured books, each featuring on heavy rotation.

Veronica appears in the room, jumping onto the bed, shifting feet into the cocoon of her sundress. Hand bent to cradle her head, she listens to the tale. Logan reads from memory and holds her gaze, his pitch and rhythm lilts across the verses in familiar rolling notes. 

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

With the closure of the book begins the strict nightly routine of seven kisses bestowed upon each cheek. No less, often more. He wishes them goodnight and threatens early risers as Veronica takes his place, cracking the spine of The Littlest Elf and beginning her term as librarian. Logan steals one last look at the three blondes before walking down the hallway.

An improvised Christmas tree sits in the lounge. It’s the crooked limb of a gum tree, painstakingly selected and propped in a red bucket. Decorated with snowflakes they each carefully cut from a newspaper. The heat still lingering outside makes snowflake decorations seem absurd. Gifts will settle beneath it later, tied with love and gold string.

Logan selects a bottle of local wine from the fridge, pours it into two glasses and takes them out to the deck.

It is dark now. Cicadas puncture the nightly din with their trill, every insect awakened by the setting sun. The subtle blue lights of the pool are the only thing illuminating the black, it’s filled to the brim, calm and unbroken. Logan bends his body, crouches and sits. His hand tracks down the top of his right thigh to a small button and presses it, releasing the prosthetic. Slight movements back-and-forth release it from the sleeve and it slides off. He gently places the lump of carbon fiber beside him before reaching and removing the silicone liner. The skin damp and sweaty beneath it, Logan runs his hand across the stretched skin, halfway between his knee and his hip, itching the scars there. Despite the absence of a limb, his right leg is the one that hurts the least. It’s gone.

The scars that spattered the length of his left leg were ones he still battled with. Countless surgeries to replicate skin, taken from other parts of his body like an epidermal jigsaw puzzle. They form a series of jagged, red lines zig-zagging from his thigh to his calf. The children called them lightning bolts. Sometimes they felt like it too.

Logan peels the shirt over his head, throwing it onto a nearby lounge chair. If his legs are lightening, his back is a hailstorm. Twenty-seven brands where nails and metal pierced his skin and were pried out, one by one.

His body was a storm.

He lifts his behind and shuffles closer to the water in short hops. A sliding door opens and Veronica appears, closing it quietly and walking out to the pool in bare feet. On her head a red Santa hat rests, skewed to the side, its white pop-pom falling across her eyes.

“Mrs Claus, you look positively edible,” he scans her up and down, a smile crinkles the corners of his mouth.

Logan places the weight on his left quadricep, straightens and stands on the edge. He steadies himself, finding balance. Looking at Veronica he flashes a trademark smile and winks before raising his arms Olympic style, propelling off the edge and diving into the water. It pours over the edge into invisible grates.

“Show off,” she rolls her eyes at him as he resurfaces. Pulling her sundress above her waist she sits at the edge of the pool, legs dangle in the blue. 

“Who, me?” Logan looks around, playfully. He cracks a grin, the kind he reserves for only her.

She shakes her head at him, “The kids are asleep, they were dozing before the elf finished making her toy.”

Veronica lifts the wineglass to her lips and watches him. He ducks underwater and tracks laps back and forth. Freestyle one way, backstroke the other. He’s like an otter, smooth and sleek, the water his ally as he moves. Logan swims each morning, and most nights too. In the water he’s free, his body maneuvers as it should. Submerged, his leg is still there, kicking where it isn’t, feeling the cool water rushing against his ankle where there is none. Water is his therapy. 

He stops his laps and looks across at his wife who pulls an elastic from her wrist and fashions her hair into a ponytail, low on her head, just under the hat.

Veronica is his therapy too.

He dives underwater again, inverting himself in a handstand, his foot hovering back and forth, holding vertical before he gradually collapses to one side. He breaks the surface, running his hands over his face.

“Your turn.”

Veronica pouts over her wine glass, “I was going to stay dry tonight.”

“As if that’s going to happen,” he says deviously and splashes her.

She takes off the Santa hat and pulls the sundress over her head, her bikini from a day on the beach still underneath, crisp from salt. Slipping into the water, the cool envelops her. Logan beside her, struggling with himself to stay away.

Veronica dives underwater, hands outstretched until she finds the tiled base. Arms rigid, back straight, her pointed feet rise upward, the air tickling from her calf to her toes. Bubbles cascade in contained releases from her mouth. She counts to twenty. When she can hold it no longer she kicks to the surface, raises her arms into a V, and bows to invisible judges. 

“No fair,” Logan says, “Two legs against one isn’t a fair competition.”

She laughs, “You instigated it, buddy.”

He looks at her, challenging, darkly. 

“Rematch.”

He takes an extended draw of breath before attempting another handstand, this one, considerably worse than the first, leg flailing, he loses his balance quickly and descends with a splash.

“Luckily I have other talents,” he says, gulping in air. Veronica doesn’t disagree.

She rights herself on the bottom of the pool, secures her feet and presses her legs together, awaiting the inevitable. The wait almost as delicious as the outcome.

Logan dips his mouth under the waterline, only his eyes and nose exposed as he approaches her. He’s a shark, waiting for a taste of blood in the water. The closer he comes, his arms outstretch and clutch at her waist. He backs her up against the blue tiles. The bottom of his face finally emerges, water pooling off his chin. He wipes the droplets without breaking eye contact.

He presses himself into her, the weight of his hardness against her stomach, heart pounding at the closeness. Logan moves towards her, as though he’s going to kiss her hungrily, hovering, exchanging oxygen but not daring to exchange a kiss. Veronica stares at him, hair dripping small rivers down her skin, her lashes stuck together in darkened sweeps.

Breaking the stare, he presses lips to her neck, the warmth of his breath tickling as he lingers there, stubble grazing.

Logan’s hands grip the sides of her waist firmly and propel her upwards as she squeals, depositing her on the edge of the pool. She sits, staring down at him, eyebrows raised. His arm rests on her stomach, gently pushing her back.

“Lie down,” he whispers beneath hooded eyes.

She obeys.

Veronica feels hands on her knees, parting her legs, letting them fall into the water as he scootches her down, backside resting on the edge. She lies, face to the blackened sky, a puddle of anticipation.

Wet bikini bottoms exposed to him, hot breaths dust her thighs. He traces fingertips on top of her bikini, back and forth across her most sensitive parts.

Water rolls as Logan bobs his head under, taking in a mouthful. He comes up, hooks his finger beneath her swimwear, pulling it to the side and slowly squirts the water onto her. It streams down her folds, baptizing her. The warmth of it, the unbearable sensuality of it causes her to raise her hips and expel a deep breath.

He does it again, closer this time. 

And again.

The next time, it’s so close he finishes in direct contact with her, lips encircling her clit. He tastes the tang of summer, of the sea. He flirts with it, kissing her warmth in deft strokes, butterfly kisses in between. Hands holding her ass steady as she liquefies before him.

Logan observes Veronica between sun kissed thighs, hungrily watching her chest rise and fall as she sucks lungfuls of air through gritted teeth.

When he slips an index finger inside, she keens, raising her legs out of the water and places them onto Logan’s shoulders. Fingernails drag through his wet scalp. Six leisurely thrusts, knuckle deep, maybe seven, combined with his constant, even pressured lapping and she comes. Arched against the tile and clamping her thighs around his head until his tongue slows and withdraws. 

Lips rest against her thigh as Veronica pushes herself up. Without breaking the moment she slips into the water, Logan catches her fall. She places hands on his shoulders, and wraps her legs around his waist. They float, face burrowed into his neck, erection straining into her groin.

Letting him slip from her grasp, she dips beneath the water, takes the top of his shorts and pulls them down. In the blue light, she watches his cock spring free. She maneuvers them over his leg and brings them back to the surface. They’re whipped through the air and land in a sodden thud on the tiles.

“You’re good at that,” he smiles.

She replies with a waggle of eyebrows.

“Can I try?”

Before she responds he’s underwater, hooking her bikinis down, shimmying them off her hips. Bubbles expel from him close to her heat, sending tingles of desire in round hops up her body. Logan runs out of breath before he can pull them to her ankles. She helps by kicking them off and handing them to him. They fly through the air and land in a potted Bougainvillea, dangling from a limb.

The moment they’re off she’s back, encasing him. This time, there isn’t anything inhibiting access, and he easily slips inside. Veronica moans loudly, it bounces off the bushland, quieting the cicadas. Logan groans in reply. Lips part, then meet again in fervent need. He kisses with the knowledge of a thousand before and the promise of a million to come. 

He thrusts in and out slowly, before realizing that a floating thrust is near impossible. They need a solid object to ground them. Still inside, he walks them over, pressing her against the wall, grabbing the edge for support.

He seats himself to the hilt, runs his hands on her wet-bikini covered breasts and pinches at the nipples pointing through the fabric. She is so hot, the water so cool, the myriad of sensations overtakes him as he assails himself into her again and again. The pressure of the water between them rushes against her clit, enhancing the sensation of their togetherness tenfold. 

Breaths strain as he thrusts in time with her, water slapping, causing increasing waves to ebb and flow across the pool until their coming together is so intense it becomes thrashing. It drenches the decking, soaking the discarded Santa hat. Their eyes lock, Logan growls out her name as he comes pulsing inside her. Only seconds behind him, Veronica reaches the crest of the wave, it thrums from her toes upward and her cries float away on the wind. She closes her eyes tight, clenching his length, until she can’t close her eyes anymore. 

She opens them, and Logan’s there watching her, still inside. Recovering breaths fall from his mouth, the pillows of his lips seeking hers.

* * *

They float on their backs, two starfish gazing at the milky way. Eyes tracing constellations, a dot-to-dot, seven stars in the shape of a saucepan, the belt and sword of Orion, the hunter. A breeze rustles, singing midnight, tipping them to a new day.

Logan lifts a hand and inspects wrinkled fingertips.

“I think it’s time.”

Veronica’s eyelids loll, exhausted from a day of sun and inactivity. She rights herself in the water and nods. They will surely be awoken pre-dawn, rumpled hair and wide brown eyes in their faces bursting with the excitement of Christmas morning.

Climbing aboard Logan’s back, arms cloak his neck as he swims to the edge. She sprinkles kisses on each rise of puckered skin on his shoulders. His lifetimes of scars. She kisses them distant with velvet lips. 

They may be his storm, but his scars are Veronica’s savior. They mean that he’s here, with them.

Alive.

_One Mississippi_

_Two Mississippi_

_Three Mississippi_

_Four Mississippi_

_Five Mississippi_

_Six Mississippi_

_Seven Mississippi_

Seven stars, seven continents, seven goodnight kisses, seven seconds.

The difference between life and death. The precise amount of time to spin on your heels, walk on two legs and steal one more kiss from your bride. Seven seconds, enough to save you from the worst of Penn Epner’s asinine retribution.

So now, it’s all in the details. The moments between them.

It’s in a perfectly wrapped book, bought for each other and placed under a tree. In a wooly Santa hat perched on wet hair. In small sandy hands, foraging for shells. In a kiss that could still elicit a steady increase in heart rhythms. 

Years, Continents.

Epic.

  
  



End file.
